


In a magical world where trains are always on time in countries other than Japan

by LadyInfierno



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, ish, overuse of the word 'stranger'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:02:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyInfierno/pseuds/LadyInfierno
Summary: The story of two strangers who wanted so badly to cross the few steps between them, inside the small space they only shared a couple of minutes a day, but didn't.
Relationships: Prussia/South Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	In a magical world where trains are always on time in countries other than Japan

**Author's Note:**

> Finally I'm done! This was originally written for the Prumano week last year, for the prompt _College_ , and it's been on editing and re-editing since :v
> 
> The last scene has its art version! You can find it [here.](https://ladyinfierno.tumblr.com/post/190833007515) I advise to see it after reading, though :)

7:00

The train station at [insert here the name of some city], just some thirty minutes or so from [insert name of a university in that city], was always packed at this hour. Most of the poor souls were broke college students that couldn't afford to own a car, or employees in sharp suits that preferred to avoid the morning traffic jams. At least it was still early for high school and primary school kids, or some of those cranky college students would a) really consider a bicycle, if they were ambitious enough, or b) simply drop out of school to avoid a bunch of noisy kids first thing in the morning.

Most of this people take the same train at the same hour everyday, the vast majority even choosing to board the same wagon out of habit, and even then, they are strangers.

There's the tall, blond stranger with a scar on his forehead. What could have happened to him? Other strangers have thought this very same question, but all of them just accept it as his trait. There's the redhead stranger with the big earphones and big eyebrows, and the cold faced stranger with a ribbon on her hair, always a different shade between blue and purple. A lot of different people and so much stories to tell about them, for which there'll be a time and place, but not today, because there's two special strangers in this train.

The first one, usually seated by the door, is always half asleep when he boards. It's a wonder, because without missing a day, there's always an empty paper cup of coffee in his hands. His hair is brown but he's too far away to see the colour of his eyes. That, and the little detail that for most of the ride he keeps them half closed. He's wearing a paint stained hoodie, so maybe he's into art of some kind. His head wobbles a bit at every stop, but not even once does he look outside to know the name of the station. His body must know by now, then.

At the other end of the wagon and standing by the opposite door, is the second stranger. He's tall. Tall enough to tower over some of the other passengers. And pale. _Very_ pale. In the fluorescent lights of the train he looks almost ill, but when they pass under a bridge, or a tunnel, and the lights around them turn more yellow and orange, the stranger _glows_ , gold outlining his broad frame. There's always curious eyes on him when this happens, but everyone is used to this ephemeral side of his by now and they don't linger.

Of course, they're normal people. If we were to compare to others in this train, the redhead stranger definitely seemed more interesting, but here, pay attention: the train enters the final tunnel before arriving at the next stop, the lights flicker above their heads and that's new, some curious eyes leave phone screens and book pages to look upside, almost as if asking the lamps if they're okay. When they return to their own worlds, two pairs of eyes linger in the wagon, almost looking like they only discovered they're _inside_ it now, and eventually, as it should be, they find each other.

Oh. The first stranger's eyes are _hazel_ , a golden green kind of hazel if that makes sense. Maybe he'd have the answer, if the assumption that he works in art is correct. The second one's, bright over a faint purple on his skin, are a rich wine being poured. Hm, or that's what some wine lover would say, anyway.

One of them smiles, cautious, friendly in the awkward way distance brings out. The other grimaces in his seat, maybe that was supposed to be a smile, or maybe he doesn't like strangers. There's no time to dwell on things, because the train stops and the doors open with a _swoosh_ and a _beeeep_ , and the tall, pale stranger gets out first, as always.

7:31

* * *

7:00

If you think about it, 31 minutes seem like enough time to do _things_. Any things. For starters, it's enough time to go from the first station of the line to one near the university. Not the nearest, though, that'd be thirty-five minutes away, but the shared ride of both special strangers only lasts until the tall one descends to the platform, one station short, four minutes that until now seemed meaningless, but somehow turned into an Important Thing to be aware of.

The thing is, time is only relative and travelling inside a big moving tin can might affect one's perception of it. Thirty-five minutes it's too short of a time to recover the sleep lost to an early morning, even more so if those shorten to thirty-one because of an automatic self-imposed routine of _smiling_ at someone before he goes away. Everyday. But the brown-haired stranger still dozes almost all the way since taking a seat.

Half an hour also seems like enough time to read a chapter or two of a book. Unless that book is a physics one, then no matter how smart you are, a short train ride won't be enough to _learn_ and memorize some new formulas. But the pale stranger keeps reading, sometimes muttering under his breath, and although he is too far away to actually listen to what he's saying, even a clouded, half asleep mind can tell he's swearing.

A subtle, early smile appears then after a yawn, because seeing someone struggle with something you don't have to is always funny. And look at that, it's been fifteen minutes already, so maybe there isn't enough time to do _things_ , in plural. Maybe one can only sit and rest or stand and read before it's time to leave.

A little sad, but the pale stranger is a bit too preoccupied with his book to notice what could have been a detonator for _something_ , be it a questioning glance, returning a smile of his own, and the put in motion of what should have been by now. He doesn't notice, so he does exactly nothing, the smile disappears and the train gains a bit of speed.

There it is, the last tunnel before the stop at the station near, not nearest, the university. Wine red eyes still on the book pages he isn't reading anymore, but without much fuss he puts a blue page marker before closing it. Nobody aboard can tell for sure, because the movement is somewhat fast, but it seems the marker has blue flowers pressed between clear plastic.

Tired eyes open in the golden light of the tunnel, more alert than they appear, and completely without the owner's consent. _Sure_. Because this became a daily thing, and it's a nice change to both routines. The train stops, the doors open, and for a short moment two strangers share a look and a smile. Now it _is_ a smile on both sides, let's be proud.

Then the moment is over, and the two of them return to their daily scripts of a life.

This time though, hazel eyes linger on a broad back, the heavy looking backpack being manhandled until it rests comfortably on it, and the seconds before the doors close seem longer than the thirty-one minute ride so far. Outside, without fluorescent light, one can discern colour a lot more easily. What all this time seemed like a bad bleach work now shines a healthy silver, and thoughts of running his hands through that mess of a hair make those hazel eyes avert their sight instantly.

7:31

* * *

7:00

The paint stained hoodie is nowhere to be seen today. In its place it's a rather fashionable coat, dark coloured and accentuating the beautiful brown skin of the wearer. Dark pants, polished shoes and a serious face complete his look for today. Some of the people in the train feel a bit underdressed because of it. Say for example, a dishevelled stranger, red jacket with a salsa stain and ripped jeans that were _not_ intended that way. Suddenly, the jacket isn't big enough to hide in.

But there's nothing to fear, since the nice looking stranger isn't paying attention to the world around him. Usually, he _looks_ like he isn't, but right now everything is just white noise for him. He seems more alert now, his cup of coffee is only half empty but he isn't dozing. Instead, the grip he has on the strap of his briefcase tells about his uneasiness and nerves.

He's muttering something under his breath, it seems like he's reciting some kind of thing, maybe to memorize it, or make sure he has already. After some words he bites his lower lip, looking distressed, and starts again. No one is paying much attention to him, no one except for the tall stranger, of course, but he doesn't notice, too engrossed in his task.

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment he's still muttering, and the next he has his lips pressed tightly, free hand curling into a fist on his lap, eyes glazing over. He looks one second away from crying, and at the same time looks like he'd rather die than let that happen. No one inside the train hears the alarm bells, no one except for the tall stranger. Of. Course.

For someone who spends almost all his mornings reading complicated science books, the next actions of the salsa stained stranger don't seem like a well planned and intelligent decision. He rips the page of the notebook he was taking notes in, haphazardly makes a ball with it and with an extreme precision no one would expect from a person using reading glasses, he throws it directly inside the other's coffee cup.

The regret is instant. For starters, _this_ day the cup isn't empty, so not only the action startles the handsome stranger, but the ball splashes the beverage up, wetting the holder's hand. Well, it could have been worse. He didn't drop it on himself, did he? If the pale stranger was thinking about that to make himself feel better, it washes away by the glare he receives from the other side of the wagon. Still, it's only half angry, mostly simmered down by curiosity. Good. At least now he doesn't look like crying, even if his eyes still shine a little.

He clears his throat a bit and breathes deeply to compose himself a little. He didn't have a plan when he threw that paper ball, but he knows the other needs a bit of cheering up, so that's exactly what he does. He smiles, because that's the easiest thing to do, and then mouths brief words of encouragement, since he doesn't want to raise his voice and bring attention to them. It's worth it, though, because he can clearly see the amazement in the other's face. The train slows down, the doors open. It's his stop.

_"You can do it."_

The tall and dishevelled stranger goes out the door, but this time he lingers on the platform. Only stepping aside to avoid being a nuisance to those getting out or those boarding, warm red eyes look through the wagon's window. A big smile and a thumbs up go directly to a still stunned beautiful stranger, eyes impossibly big and still wet. He returns the smile, grateful. When the train starts again, the well-dressed stranger notices just how warm his face is, and how fast his heart is beating. He can no longer see the other, but he wonders if it was the same for him.

7:32

* * *

6:50

People make decisions all the time, life is just a succession of them, and even small steps can help to achieve a bigger goal in the future. The strangers on the train are always doing this, by doing or not doing something, they are responsible for the daily events that occur in a certain way. The decision to take the same wagon of the train, for starters.

But of course, there are other types of decisions. The ones that take more time to be finally put into motion, the ones that need over a week of contemplation, of restless nights, of elaborated and oddly specific possible scenarios and outcomes. The kind that, compared to the other tiny steps taken, seem like a whole leap of faith into the unknown.

Today seems to be the day one stranger is going to make that kind of decision, or his nervous twitching and occasional searching through the morning crowd would suggest it. Also the fact that he's ten minutes earlier than normal and completely awake, no cup of coffee today, no stained hoodie. One would think he looks purposely dishevelled, in a cool and casual way, and can only imagine how much time that look took him.

It's not like he _needs to_ , but in his not-perfect-but-the-best-case-possible scenario for today's task the nice clothes were a _must_. It's just another day, another train ride 'till the station near, not nearest, the university, and he's going to talk to the tall stranger.

How can one have such an intimate relationship with someone who doesn't know your name? Neither of them could tell the most basic information about the other, and yet, from the two-something metre distance between them, this pair of strangers has noticed _things_.

Like the way the pale stranger pushes his red rimmed lecture glasses, not bothering to do it subtly or carefully, only using his shoulder when both his hands are busy with notes. They end up sliding again across the bridge of his nose, but he's too preoccupied reading and re-reading some pages of his notebook. He usually looks like he didn't sleep much, but only near exam season one can say for sure that his clothes seem to be the same than the day before.

Then, there was that time the brunet stranger looked pale and tired and downright miserable, a fabric mask over his face. Red rimmed eyes half closed under a scowl that surely wanted to deepen, but probably was avoided in order to prevent a worse headache. For everyone aboard he looked like a grumpy, wet cat plotting murder. For the tall, pale stranger he just looked fed up in a weirdly adorable way.

And of course, that one time the pale stranger arrived at the station in a hurry, almost out of breath, hair muzzled and sweat shining on his neck, and the first thing he did upon boarding the train was look at the seat by the opposite door, and smile in relief at the sight of brown hair and brown skin and shining, questioning eyes.

It's been only three months, or maybe, it's been three months _already_.

And yet, there hasn't been enough time to actually talk to each other (maybe there'd be, if at least one of them wasn't such a coward), but the exchange of silly faces and mouthed greetings were there. The eventual mute compliments to paint stained clothes and whole morning trips spent watching red wine eyes skim over class notes.

Then, as it should be, one stranger started to like the other. _Of course_.

It takes a whole minute for the well dressed stranger to accept the facts, that all his determination and seemingly preparation were for nothing. His stranger isn't coming today.

Only he knows how much that costs, both mental and physically, but he can't even get mad at the other, it wasn't like they had an arrangement of some sort. Maybe he was a bit late and had to take another wagon, maybe he had another exam and had to go on the earlier train. Hell, maybe he's sick, or tired, and decided not to come today. So it's no big deal, he can try again tomorrow if he musters the courage and power of will necessary.

He only has to remember a warm smile, directed only at him, to know that yes, he'll try again for sure. Tomorrow he'll talk to him.

7:01

* * *

7:00

Nervous glances at the platform, and later to the doors of the train until they close, do nothing to appease an aching heart. The tall stranger doesn't come today neither.

* * *

He doesn't appear again.

* * *

7:03

It's a fact that time is a complicated thing that may not exist the way we think it does. No, time as it is doesn't _matter_ , what really matters it's how we, and things in general, perceive it. It doesn't stop, doesn't go backwards, but there's and infinite amount of it and people will spend a minuscule and unimportant part of it living. So don't stress over it, good things are waiting for you.

Sadly, the train is _not_.

By the time a pair of worn out converse shoes step at the platform, the train has long been gone. At least he isn't the only loser that missed the early train, he knows, but the other couple of strangers doesn't seem to be catching their breath the way he is, so he tries to compose himself enough to stop looking like he's drowning on air, while hoping no one is staring at him but refusing to check.

He has stopped looking at strangers on public spaces, the last time it didn't bring anything good. (It _did_ , but it also _didn_ 't last, and that scares him.)

He huffs, and stomps his foot a little, because of all the months he has taken this route, not once had he arrived late to take the train, and it had to happen now, when the only thing he has inside his backpack is a dead phone and an apron. Now he wouldn't arrive fifteen minutes earlier, and his work station wouldn't be ready for the start of the class.

There's isn't much to do but wait, so he waits. The minutes pass by and the sun starts to rise, it's a bit strange to see this happen _outside_ a moving train. This time, the sun doesn't follow him on his daily trek to university, to the career he loves and is killing him slowly, it now peeks from the tallest buildings in the distance, slowly bathing everything and everyone in the warm and calm first light of the day.

Without noticing, he smiles, because that's the only thing one can do when surrounded by a warm hug from the universe.

Very so slowly, the light anger and annoyance he felt disappears from his face and shoulders, and for the first time in what feels like years (a year and a half, to be precise) this lonely stranger feels content enough with how his life is going.

People stop at his side to wait. Not really a big deal, since as the minutes pass by and the next train approaches, the more people there will be. None of them has acknowledged the others' presence, but that doesn't mean they don't notice it.

The one at his left is just a bit too close to him to be comfortable, he really tries to overlook it but in the end, the need to have his space respected until there's no other option wins, so he turns to that annoying stranger with a glare and a complaint on his lips. It dies soon enough, when he's meet with pale skin, silver hair, the warmest wine coloured eyes and a bright smile, small though, a bit sheepish. That fucking glow around him just as he remembers, now lasting more than mere seconds, makes him dizzy with how _ethereal_ it looks.

"Hi, stranger."

And it's the first time he hears it. The rough voice isn't what he expected, but right now he wasn't expecting _anything at all_. He takes a short breath, it gets stuck in his throat, and the moment who'd have been magical otherwise turns into a bad comedy when he starts having a coughing fit.

Some looks are sent his way from other strangers in the platform, and his own personal one is kind of freaking out beside him, asking him if he's alright with his arms hovering around him in an awkward attempt to comfort him. Maybe his intent was to pat his back, but without enough self-confidence to actually touch him.

Everything is so ridiculous, that maybe it's why he can't stop smiling.

* * *

16:39

The little bookshop at [insert here the name of some street in a city], just some twenty five minutes or so walking from [insert name of a university in that city], has its doors always open for tired people looking to have a bit of peace and quiet. The owner, an elderly man with a gentle smile, spends most of his time reading and occasionally looking outside the window to the hundreds of citizens making their daily lives.

People come and go in the street outside, too busy or too lost in their own thoughts to do more than acknowledge the other's presence, and yet, at the same time, they're being a part of something together, staying just as strangers. The long haired stranger with a flower on her head, apron and hands full of flour who's rushing to cross the street, and the short, grumpy looking blond stranger who smiles a bit at her while crossing in the opposite direction might be a good example of it.

And, of course, the two special strangers walking down the street.

The first one, dressed sharply and with a messenger bag at his shoulder, is speaking lively about something, hazel eyes bright while he gestures wildly with one arm. The second stranger, wearing a salsa stained hoodie and a look of utter adoration walks beside him, listening attentively and holding tight onto the one hand the other isn't using for his monologue. It seems they're going to the bookshop, but no one else seems to be paying attention.

They're still strangers to the world around them but, _finally_ , they're no longer strangers to each other. Just as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really good with titles, right? ;D
> 
> Some things I wanted to cover but didn't know how:  
> 1\. Gilbert left the train early to help open the bookshop and then run the rest of the way to school. Yes, old Fritz is the owner.  
> 2\. Lovino's stained hoodie is actually Feliciano's, who studies art. Lovi studies culinary arts.  
> As to why Gilbert disappeared so suddenly, we may never know :)


End file.
